


Fraser/Kowalski kisses

by china_shop



Category: due South
Genre: Fic, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-12
Updated: 2010-10-12
Packaged: 2017-10-12 14:56:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I watched him put the vacuum away, and pull fresh sheets from the closet. "New beginnings," he said, stepping around me and dumping the scrunched armful of cotton onto the bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fraser/Kowalski kisses

**Author's Note:**

> For miss_zedem's kissing fest, but too long for a comment. I salvaged this from a long-abandoned PWP, which definitely had the WP thing going for it, but not so much the initial P.

I arrived at Ray's apartment unannounced and uninvited, on a whim, but it was still disconcerting to be greeted by a Ray so calmly energetic, so delectably clad.

He wore a black tank top. His pale worn jeans were frayed at the cuffs so that soft tufts of denim trailed over the tendons of his bare feet. He smelled of hard work—clean, fresh sweat—and his hair was damp and curled at his temples and behind his ears.

"Glad you came by, Fraser." He took the hat from my grasp and threw it neatly at the couch as he pivoted and led the way through to the bedroom, unselfconscious, talking over his shoulder. "I'll just finish straightening up, you know, and then we can move on to, uh, better things."

"Okay, Ray." I stretched a kink out of my neck and looked around the room while Ray attached a brush head to the vacuum cleaner and started to dispel the layer of dust that coated the bare floor where the bed had been.

Ray had moved his bed.

Until now Ray's bed had been set squarely in the middle of the room, its headboard hard up against the far wall, flanked on either side by twin nightstands. Now it was jammed into the corner, beneath the window. The vacuum cleaner head nudged my boots, and I promptly stepped aside, out of the way. Being a trained observer, it was hard not to be aware of the flex of Ray's biceps as he wielded the machine, or the graceful twist of his lower back as he vacuumed between the legs of the remaining nightstand.

I blinked and turned to the window. It was a pleasant day, the sky cerulean blue, dotted with white puffy clouds. Sunlight poured like bright gold onto the unmade bed in its new placement.

The vacuum cleaner's whine performed a sudden decrescendo and was silent. "Thought I'd make some changes," said Ray, from behind me. The cord rattled as it retracted.

I turned and nodded, looking at him, checking for signs that anything untoward had prompted this. He seemed untroubled, despite his next words.

"Stella's not coming back. I get that. And I, well, it's not like I'm—" He looked away and a shadow flickered across his face, but then he shook himself. "You got to know your limitations, right? Play to your strengths." He hunched his shoulders and shadow-boxed a right-jab, left-hook combination, his arms moving so fast that his tattoo was a blur. "I thought here—there's more sun. More floor space, too, this way. I can work out at home."

"Indeed." I winced at the pomposity of my own tone.

Ray's head swung up, his face open and matter-of-fact. "Time to move on."

It was a salutary lesson. I watched him put the vacuum away, and pull fresh sheets from the closet. "New beginnings," he said, stepping around me and dumping the scrunched armful of cotton onto the bed.

The domesticity of the scene charmed me utterly. For a moment I shut my eyes and let myself pretend that Ray did have intentions, that he'd engineered this entire situation—his beguiling clothes, the bed, even the sunlight and my own arrival—to seduce me. After all, he wasn't to know that it would only take a single word. Seduction was far from necessary.

There was a scuffling sound and I blinked my eyes open, quickly, to see him stretched across the bed, his rear end displayed invitingly as he struggled to wrap the fitted sheet around the corner of the mattress. I scolded myself soundly for picturing the same scene with fewer clothes and hurried forward to lend a hand, divesting myself of my tunic as I went.

The sheet was tangled. I straightened it with a smart tug, and secured it on the bottom left corner of the bed. Ray rolled onto his side to stare at me. "How'd you do that?"

The curve of his horizontal body was distracting, as were the strong clean lines of his arms. I tore my eyes away, and wondered why I was so weak today, why my control was slackening. I was accustomed to wanting too much. I'd learned to live with it. Why today? Perhaps it was the bed, the golden light in the air. The bead of sweat at the base of Ray's throat.

"Standard practice," I told him, falling back on cliché. I made to stand up, to move to a safe distance. I'd suggest a drink of water, a brisk walk—anything to get us out of here, out of this danger zone. But first I reached to smooth a lone remaining crease in the sheet.

When I pulled back, Ray's eyes were wide, his gaze fixed on my crotch. I didn't need to look down to know what he saw. Usually the uniform pants hid a multitude of sins, but I was half-leaning over the bed, my knees pressed against the mattress, the fabric pulled tight across my crotch. My desire must have been obvious. I flushed.

Ray raised his eyes to my face and the line between his eyebrows deepened, as though he were making connections, intuiting—Fear made me lose my mind and, frozen in place, I began to stammer that, although excessive salt consumption was known to be harmful, as with other trace minerals one needed a certain amount of sodium chloride in one's diet to—

I stopped mid-sentence—he wasn't listening, anyway—and said his name. "Ray?"

His face cleared, as though that answered all his silent questions, and his mouth formed an _oh_ of comprehension.

Oh dear. I hadn't meant for this to happen. I hadn't meant for him to find out. Perhaps my mental digressions had been a form of subconscious sabotage, but _consciously_ I'd always known I couldn't take this risk. Too much was at stake.

Yet here we were. I waited for his verdict, for judgment. Would he hurl me bodily from his apartment? Would he laugh in my face? It seemed trite that I could more easily bear the former, and I was trying to shake myself from inertia and pre-empt eviction or mockery when his hand reached up, tentatively, and his long fingers slid beneath my left suspender so that his knuckles brushed my Henley, a warm pressure on my ribs that left me breathless.

I think we were both surprised that his hand had dared such a bold move. There was little room for misinterpretation in his possessive grip, and he tugged gently, urging me forward.

I began to obey, then stopped myself, braced my arms on the bed.

His adam's apple moved as he swallowed. "Have you—Fraser, have you, uh, thought about—us?" he asked, his voice dry and shaky.

I wanted to feign ignorance. _Well, of course, Ray. You're my partner, so it's only natural that I should think of our relationship from time to time._ I still expected the rug to be whipped out from under me. But I had to meet his courage with my own. Anything else would be betrayal. My eyes fell to the expanse of fresh sheets, white and smooth, unstained and unused. I nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "I didn't know that." He tugged harder on my suspender, and I jerked forward, my arm shifting to his shoulder for balance, to stop myself falling onto him.

I hovered over him, searching his face for confusion or doubt. I found only curiosity and heat. The sunlight was bright; his body glowed. Well, hell, I thought, at last. Why deny him, if he's asking for it?

I bent down, taking my time, giving him plenty of opportunity to stop me. He didn't. He watched though hooded eyes, watched my lips part. His blond lashes feathered his cheeks.

When we were only inches apart, I hesitated. I wanted to taste him, to kiss him sweetly, to savor this moment, to plunge greedily into his mouth. I wanted everything at once, and was caught by fear and indecision.

His knuckles flexed against my ribs, and he yanked hard, dragging me down to meet him. I fell. His mouth opened against my lips, and his tongue swept boldly along mine, and oh God, I was lost. I kissed him blindly, reveling in his openness, his energy. He kissed like he spoke, a tumble of words and ideas, an intent, focused pursuit.

He slid his arms around my shoulders, ran his hands down my back. He was untucking my Henley from my pants when I stopped him. It was too much, too much.

I shrugged his arms aside and gripped his wrist, pressing it into the yielding mattress. I broke our kiss. I couldn't look at him. I ran my face down his neck, down over his chest. He tensed beneath me, perhaps misunderstanding my aim and I slid down his body toward his erection. With my free hand, I pushed his tank top up, revealing his torso, golden skin blinding in the sunlight, and I licked a path over his ribs—tasting the intoxicating mix of salt and skin—to his nipple. He reached for me with his free hand, stroking the back of my neck, my ear—any skin he could reach. He was saying something, murmuring syllables that my addled brain couldn't parse. He arched up, his fingers threading through my hair, holding me close, and then drew me up to meet his mouth again. It felt wonderful.


End file.
